In a state of great excitement, Myra went home and got on with her life. She continued
to go to work in London and carry on as usual. Eventually the mobile phone she had bought
for "Business" rang and it was her contact man.
"What are you trying to do?" was the direct question he asked when she answered
"You've managed to piss off a few people, I can tell you" Myra listened in
silence, nervously smoking. The voice paused. "But Eddie had more enemies than
friends, so you pleased a lot of faces" Myra felt herself relax. "And I think I
can get you some work-a lot of people are interested in you. Anything I can do for
you?" "Yeah" Myra said as she settled on her bed, toying with a 9mm,
"I need somewhere where I can squeeze off a few rounds and get the feel of me
shooters", revealing that she may have watched one episode of The Sweeney too many.
There was a pause. "Yeah, I think I can help. My mate Alex has a farm out in Suffolk.
No one around. I'll fix it up for you. Just do me a favour though luv...don't shoot him
will you?" So Myra drove to Alex's farm where a rough shooting range had been
set up in a barn. He showed her in and disappeared-he must have been warned. In a medium
sized hold all Myra had brought a selection of guns. Donning her black leather gloves (the
best Debenhams sold) she felt her mouth dry and excitement surge through her being as she
softly picked up a 9mm auto. It was the first time she had had a chance to fire it. With a
double handed grip, just like on tele, she took aim. She squeezed the trigger...oh fuck
this is so fucking good she thought...Boom, a flower of orange flame exploded from the
muzzle, long rod-like sparks jutting from the base of the flame. Unwittingly, Myra had
loaded a pyrotechnic round. She let the gun drop slightly. She could feel herself
breathing heavily. She wanted a cigarette, but continued on. She took aim once more at the
mound of earth with various tins, cans and bottles placed upon it. She fired again and
again. The gun spoke again, belching flame and smoke. She noticed the bullets thud home
into the earth, but all the targets remained untouched.
She trembled with excitement as she took aim once more. She squeezed the trigger...CLICK-a
stoppage "Shit" Myra said out loud. "shit" she said again as she
placed the gun in the bag and took out another. She emptied the magazine, but once more
failed to hit the targets. She processed to fire the entire contents of two more guns,
with the same dismal results. However, she consoled herself in the knowledge that she
would always be at close range when at work and that she had learnt valuable lessons in
regard to handling the weapons. And she felt so good, so very good. She just wasn't Annie
Oakley, that's all.
Zipping up the bag, she walked over to the farmhouse. Knocking on the door, it opened just
a crack. Alex peered wide eyed at Myra. "'Ere are luv" Myra smiled as she thrust
a roll of notes at the obviously uncomfortable man. He quickly took the money and shut
door. Myra turned and smiled to herself as she walked to her car "Don't worry
luv" she thought, "You aren't my type"
At home, she rang her contact and told him about the day's events. "So the old
bastard's still breathing then?" the voice asked "You scared the shit out of
him! Your reputation goes before you" Myra lay on her bed, blowing the smoke from her
cigarette towards the ceiling. Her gently rubbed her body with the .45, closing her eyes
with total pleasure. "Oh you spoke with him...yeah, he seemed scared shitless"
she chuckled. She became serious "I did have one problem though-had a gun jam on me.
I don't know what to do. I don't know how to maintain them," not mentioned her dismal
performance as a markswoman. There was silence for a moment "Ever been to the
States?"
Two weeks later she was getting into a rented car at Newark Airport. As she cautiously
piloted it south on the New Jersey Turnpike she glanced at her instructions.
Turnpike...exit 8A, Route 539 south. About an hour and twenty minutes later she pulled
into a cheap, run down looking 1950s motel. In the car's headlights she saw it's pink
exterior. A pink and blue neon sign said "Rest -A- While Motel", underneath red
letters spelt out "VACANCY" Within an hour Myra was settling in for an un-easy
night's sleep.
She awoke the next morning and went to a diner the receptionist recommended for breakfast.
It was the sort place beloved of film directors. She parked next to two large Mack dump
trucks. She walked in and felt every eye in the place burn itself into her back. A bored
looking waitress finally looked up and smiled "Hi-one?" "Yes, fanks
darlin'"Myra said, relieved by the woman's pleasant manner. The woman showed Myra to
a booth. Two large men in baseball caps, whom Myra took to be the drivers of the trucks,
sat at the counter, eyeing the big blond. "Say" said the waitress placing a menu
in front of Myra "You from Australia? "Nah, darlin' I'm from England, ain't
I?" "Yeah, well you sure sound Australian" Myra ordered food, sipping a
coffee and pulled out her cigarettes. Immediately one of the truckers spun from his stool
and offered his lighter.
"Fanks, luv" said Myra through the smoke "Australia huh?" said the man
"Nah, like I said...Myra thought quickly..."Yeah, that's right I'm from
Australia" Just then the waitress returned "See, I knew I was right.
England...that's rich" The other truck driver joined in. "Hon you sure are a
good looking gal and all, but Princess Di you ain't!" The two drivers, the waitress
and a couple of other customers all laughed. "Pratts" thought Myra as she smiled
sweetly, her eyes twinkling.
That night Myra drove just down the road to a bar where she was to meet her contact man.
It was a long, low, rather run down looking building, with a gravel car park. About four
or five Harleys were parked head in in front of the bar. In a moment of whimsy Myra
thought there only needed to be a hitching rail and it would look like something out of a
western. A couple of jacked up pick up trucks with about six headlights each were also
there and a few cars. Dressed in a smart black business two piece skirt suit bought from
Pitsea Market, she brush herself down. Having never really liked going in pubs by herself,
she took a deep breath and pushed the door open.
Needless to say, she was aware of many eyes turning her way as she walked to the bar.
There were three televisions around the place, each on a different channel. A poster for
Nascar Racing adorned one wall, while behind the bar a large neon surrounded clock said
Bud Light. As her eyes grew used to the darkness, she began to notice the other customers.
The Harley riders were self evident, and one of the women in that group had already given
Myra one or two hard glances. There were three or four young men loudly laughing at one
end of the bar. As she sat at a stool at the bar the barmaid placed a coaster in front of
Myra and smiled "What'll it be hon?" Myra returned the smile and said
"Heineken please luv". Not wishing to draw too much attention to herself, Myra
sat looking straight ahead. Already the sound of a sliding bar stool told her that she
would soon have company.
She flipped open her packet of Silk Cut and slid one from the box. Before she could get
her lighter out a flaming Zippo was being out stretched in front of her. "Fanks
luv" Myra said as she expelled the smoke. A large man of around 35 beamed at her,
head shaven, his pot belly straining the Yankees T shirt he wore. "That's OK,
Crocodile-what part of Australia you from?" he said in a gruff, gravelly voice.
"Sydney" replied an unblinking Myra. The barmaid returned and placed a green
bottle on the empty drink mat-glasses being very much an optional extra in this
establishment. It seemed that the barmaid eyed Myra's new friend somewhat harshly, but
said nothing and left.
"Been here long?" asked the man "Nah" was Myra's reply. "How long
you staying?" continued the man. "Not long" was Myra's detached reply.
Just then the door opened and two men walked in. They came directly over. "Hey
Sal-it's the Aussie lady" said one. Myra spun around and smiled "Oh, 'ullo
luv" she said with genuine warmth. They sat on her other side, soon they were talking
about the events of the day, and presently the shaven head disappeared.
They were joking and laughing when Myra looking up and saw a dirty looking man of around
50. His baseball cap had something about earth movers on it, while he unzipped his jacket
to reveal an American Eagle and POW-MIA on his T shirt She could tell he was looking
directly at her. Her contact man had told her that she would be approached-could this be
it? He moved close behind her, then sat at a stool one place away.
The evening progressed with Myra sitting drinking demurely with her trucker friends.
Eventually she reached for her cigarettes. Before anyone had a chance to do anything the
man slid a red Winston book of matches to Myra. "Here, have these on me" he said
as he turned from the bar and left. Flipping the book open Myra saw a neatly written
message: A telephone number and CALL TOMORROW BILL. Right.
She rang from the diner. Jotting the directions down, she returned to her booth and
ordered breakfast. The same waitress served her and asked "So what brings you here to
Jersey?" Myra quickly thought once more and that she worked for a convenience store
chain and was looking for new sites. It seemed to satisfy the woman, who seemed
disappointed that it wasn't something more exciting. If only you knew darlin...
She drove off purposefully to the place where Bill said he would meet her. Shortly she saw
his run down looking pick up waiting by the side of the road. She slowed and Bill pulled
onto the road, Myra following. Eventually the truck turned off the road and made it's way
down a bumpy un-made road, cautiously followed by Myra. The surrounding scrubby brush and
water logged woods of spindly trees was most unattractive. In summer this place must be
hell Myra thought, though it wasn't much better now.
Presently they came to a clearing deep in the woods. There was an old, large caravan or,
as they would say in New Jersey, trailer, and ramshackle looking sheds and huts. Bill
waited for Myra to stop and gestured to go into the trailer. Inside was a scene of
unspeakable squalor and filth. Myra recoiled as she entered, merely observing "Not
married then luv?" Bill made some reference to his wife who had left him not long
after he returned "From Nam". Myra wisely didn't press the subject. Bill came to
the point: He knew what she wanted, would give her all the instruction she wanted and it
was cash up front. Myra pulled a wad of dollar bills from inside her jacket-Bill was
satisfied, placing it behind a decidedly nasty looking fridge.
He proceeded to show her how to strip and assembly both automatics and revolvers. He
expressed surprised at how quickly Myra picked it up. Myra looked at some magazines that
were lying around and saw something that caught her eye...then she a Gall's catalogue and
noted the ultra fine black leather frisking gloves for policewomen-now they could come in
handy. The day passed quickly and soon it grew dark. Myra made her excuses and said she
would return tomorrow for the target practice that Bill had promised.
The following morning she returned and they went down to Bills own makeshift range. With
Bill's coaching and help Myra did much better than at Alex's. It certainly was money well
spent. Myra spied a shoulder holster, which she really liked. She would have loved to have
one by dared not risk bringing through Customs. However, with great foresight she did
fashion a paper outline of the holster itself, thinking that perhaps she could get out
made in the UK. Then she saw the gunbelt. Heavy black leather, with a criss-cross pattern
she fingered in almost reverently. "Can I wear this? Get I put it on?" she asked
like a excited 15 year old. Bill smiled and helped put it around her waist. He made sure
he got as close as possible. Even thought Myra hated having him so close, the gun belt
felt so good around her. She quickly grabbed a big automatic and thrust it into the
holster. She looked at herself in the mirror-and liked what she saw.
But Bill was positively repulsive and worst yet, he certainly had designs upon his
student. "My, you're gettin' pretty good there missy, a regular Annie Oakley" he
observed as Myra starting reloading a .45 after shooting. She slapped the clip home with
the palm of her gloved hand. "Yeah...you are one mean bitch" Myra's eyes, which
hadn't been sparkling whilst in Bill's company became positively icy.
"You sure are pretty...how's about showing me a little appreciation" said Bill
as he moved towards Myra and reached around her back. "You know, you're just my kind
of woman" "Funny thing that, darlin'" said Myra seductively "...you're
my kind of a man...dead" Just as Eddie, Bill had just enough time for the terror to
flash across his eyes. At point blank range Myra pumped a shot into his groin. In the
semi-darkness, the muzzle flash illuminated both Myra and her victim. Bill howled in agony
as another bullet plowed into his chest. The sparkle has returned to Myra's eyes, as the
leather clad finger squeezed to trigger again and again in a frenzy of cordite tinged
pleasure. Having emptied the clip, Myra stood over the lifeless body, eyes closed,
quivering with excitement. She looked at the gun for a moment...better without the
silencer...yeah, better without the silencer she mused. Reluctantly taking off the gun
belt, she tossed the gun on the body. Pausing only to retrieve the money she gave Bill
from behind the fridge, she got in her car and drove to back to the motel.
She went to New York with the address she had taken out of a gun magazine to make a
special purchase while sight seeing in New York. She had the gloves sent by special
delivery to the Motel and soon she was back at Newark Airport. She bought a paper while
she waited to board the plane. On an inside page there was a couple of columns devoted to
a story headed "MAN SLAIN IN PINEBARRENS". Apparently he had been seen with an
Australian woman shortly before his death. Myra was still smiling when she got on the
plane...